Category: Poetry

Probably not Presentable

I’m truly turning into that stereotypical old woman.

I wear the same clothes every day for at least a week, unless they’re too dirty to be seen in public. At home dirty clothes are all right with me.

I don’t change my underwear every day unless they smell.

I only change my sheets every couple of weeks, sometimes, only once a month.

I don’t wash my face every day. I don’t like to shower except after I’ve been in the pool for aquafit classes, and so I don’t.

I’d rather eat a hamburger out every day than cook. I rarely eat salad. I want cookies and/or candy every day.

I wish I could get away without brushing my teeth, or ever going to the dentist. The same goes for visiting the doctor.

I don’t really ever want to leave the house. I’m happy with staying home with my knitting; nothing could entice me to travel.

I’d rather concentrate on memories than making plans. Dying doesn’t scare me but living does.

But in spite of that, I went to the “Christmas Revels” last night, and it was wonderful. I put on clean clothes, brushed my hair and my teeth and washed my face. I had aquafit in the morning, so I had a shower.

I was, for a night, what you might call, presentable.

This December Morning

Out my window there isn’t one color that isn’t some shade of gray.

There’s a strong wind blowing and the black crows are trying to land in the tree tops.

Everything is in motion, swaying but deeply rooted in the earth.

Two black crows have landed high up in a fir tree, while others fly by being pushed hither and fro.

Summer Solstice 2025        On the precipice of World War 3

To Tracy and Kelly, as we are just days away from the longest day of the year… summer solstice 2025

Today, it’s getting out of bed and making lemon bars, and coleslaw, to celebrate Jack and Nori. Jesse has the ribs cooking at home and Nori’s, making baked beans and blackberry cobbler.

For the occasion, I thought of putting a mask on my face and plucking my chin hairs, but I’m not sure I even have time for that and besides, nobody gets that close to me anyway to see whether I have chin hairs or large pores or wrinkles. But, I will, for certain brush my teeth and my hair.

We’re expecting rain on Friday and Saturday. And so the temperatures have been dropping into the low seventies and the fifties at night, so what to wear has me in a conundrum. I know for sure I will wear my acrylic oyster barrette in my hair and take a long-sleeved sweatshirt to Jack’s house.

I suppose I can do laundry while I make the lemon bars and the coleslaw. I could maybe do some reading or do some scrolling. It’s more likely that I will do the latter.

If I’m driving, I should get my car washed because it’s covered in sap from the maple trees and dust from the road construction. The combination creates a sparkly but dull finish, that makes my car look as though it has sat in the barn for decades. Only the bird poop on the hood, falling from up high in the maple trees, gives it away as a car that lives on the street.

Maybe Ancel will drive instead. Either way, I will dread Highways 26 and 217. I will silently wish that Jack still lived on 25th and Ainsworth. But laughing and loving will make me forget that we have to return home on these dreaded highways.

Sitting here on the bed is not getting the food prepped. But sitting here on the bed pretending that I’m talking to you girls face to face makes me stay here a minute or two longer.

Tomorrow I’ll be going to Pho Van for #52, Bun, with chewy, sticky pork skewers and crispy rolls filled with vegetables and undisclosed proteins on noodles flavored with fish sauce.

Saturday, I’ll go meet with a bunch of women and play, I think it’s called, Cards Against Humanity. I haven’t decided what to make yet for me and others to eat.

And while all of these pleasures go on, I’m torn at heart and of mind and my hair turns ever more white around my face, wetted by my tears, as WW3 is being played out on neighboring continents.

I will breathe. I will breathe out prayers into the universe that this madness will end. But as David Byrne has written in his song, Burning Down the House”… “Same as it ever was. Same as it ever was.”

My joy is in knowing you and loving you and knowing that I am loved in return. I hope you’re safe, healthy, and at peace.

On This First Sunday in June

The day has started so cold. It’s in the 40s, but promises to be in the 70s by day’s end. Satisfying weather for a spring day, I think.

But for now, mid-morning, I’m still in the bed with the blankets pulled up to my hips to keep my legs warm and so as not to disturb the cat lying between my feet.

I awoke to gray skies, but slowly the light has brightened the clouds making me aware of my hunger.

It’s pancakes with eggs, sweetened with maple syrup, I’m thinking. A steaming cup of black coffee. The thought of breakfast, if nothing else, will get me out of my bed, however lazy I feel on this first Sunday in June.

A Spring Day. I cannot miss a moment of this.

A most glorious day.

Blue skies with magnificent white clouds floating by,

Sometimes obscuring the sun, leaving a chill in the air.

Sunlight illuminates every color of green. Overwhelmingly green.

Every flower blossom exudes fragrance on the air,

Passing by just to give a whiff, of pleasure.

The mottled ground, shadows of quivering leaves.

The Bush Tits flitting, where else? In the bushes.

I’m mesmerized. I cannot move from this chair.

What if I miss a moment?

I Miss Winter Already

I miss winter already.

I miss the dark and brooding skies,

As I look up through bare branches hanging overhead.

I miss the mist and the cold wind against my face,

And pulling my coat and my scarf a bit closer around me,

And my hat tightly down over my ears.

I miss the hard, hard rain,

Soaking through my pant legs and my boots.

Although it’s barely spring,

I miss the long nights of storms blowing through from the east,
Rattling both shutters and awakening my fears.

I miss finding comfort in piles of quilts and wool.

Even the soft light of spring seems too harsh, too bright.

I’m not ready. I’m not prepared for what is exposed in this light that comes even through clouds.

Though there are a million other beautiful things about spring,

I miss winter already.

Hope blooms eternal in the hearts of the young…

Bleeding hearts

And my heart breaks that they, the young, will have to have their hearts smashed and crushed. And because of hope, they will go down there again and again.

Learn not to hope, learn not to believe. Turn down the flickering, weak lights of love.  Turn them down. Love has no strength. Like a flower that opens in the Sun, it turns to dust in the cold, cruel darkness of night.

Reality then comes in like harsh light. Too strong for love. Love runs. It disappears, it seems, as soon as it appears and then vanishes.

You’ll find that I’m right. I will be there to take you in my arms while you cry bitter tears. But only time will teach you what I already know.

So I cry for you, as you hope for what can never be.

Ode to the Fat Squirrel  (Amy Beth)

As I watched you…

I could almost feel the warm midwest winter sunshine on your hair.

Your hair is the colors of burnished bronze, copper, and gold. Some strands are thick and lustrous as if made of spun silver.

Unruly, some with a mind of their own are spiraling away from the rest, up into the air with a strong sense of whimsy in defiance of gravity.

Flecks of dust are flying around your head in a ray of sun, animated by the air, stirred by the swish of wool and cotton.

Beautiful visuals punctuated by laughter.

I loved it all on this cold, wet, dark day in Portland on the west coast.

Wordsmith: Enora Hall

I watch a lot of knitting podcasts because I’m a knitter. I love some, and some I don’t love. The Fat Squittel falls into the former…  in my list of top five, she’s hard to beat.

She’s intelligent, well-read, informed, and always filled with abundant humor. There’s beauty that isn’t unfounded in other podcasts, but there’s something rare in the presentation… in the filming, in her talent as a textile artist.

Once, I thought I was writing to her to tell her of my appreciation, but sent it unknowingly to some random poster writing about Mary Todd Lincoln. Thankfully,  someone commented on my comment, and the lost poem was found. Here you have it.

Poet… Why?

Why do you write in words and phrases that hide in dark obscurity.

Is writing plainly so unappealing?

Unless my mind short circuits are you less profound?

Is it because your search for strange bedfellows in metaphors makes you feel more like your imagined idea of poetry?

I would rather that your words conjure visions and not a puzzle to interpret falsly or incidentally incorrectly?

Don’t you want me to peck and find and gobble your meaning like birds hunting seeds among the tall grass, the pebbles and dust?

I don’t mind the work, but at least make it worth my while.